


Better brother, better son

by AutumnHobbit



Series: Dying from the exit wounds [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Brothers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, No Slash, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: Father had placed a hand on top of Damian's head as he passed him in the Cave earlier that day, had met his eyes and instructed him, "Make sure you keep an eye on Tim." Damian had hardlystoppedwatching Drake since he'd taken a bullet to his lung three weeks ago to save Damian's life, but Damian still lifted his chin and met his father's eyes and promised, "I will."__________Follow-up toDying from the exit wounds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So awhile back I wrote a headcanon-y thing about platonic bed-sharing scenarios with the Batfam (here: http://autumnhobbit.tumblr.com/post/155529992322/share-a-bed-trope-only-not-romantic-foes-or ) and realized that the one with Tim and Damian would work as a sequel of sorts to my previous fic, Dying from the exit wounds. So. Have an angsty follow-up of Damian becoming the equivalent of the mom from the Tim Hawkins 'Have You Eaten' sketch (here for your convenience.) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=geAY8__60LQ
> 
> Title from Polarize by Twenty One Pilots.

The Manor was near-silent except for the quiet buzzing of the television in the living room, and Damian was crouched at the top of the stairs, gazing down between the bars of the banister. He could just make out the glow of the TV outlining the slumped figure hunched over on the couch. 

Father had placed a hand on top of Damian's head as he passed him in the Cave earlier that day, had met his eyes and instructed him, "Make sure you keep an eye on Tim." Damian had hardly _stopped_ watching Drake since he'd taken a bullet to his lung three weeks ago to save Damian's life, but Damian still lifted his chin and met his father's eyes and promised, "I will."

So here he sat, alone in the darkened hall, watching Tim stare blankly at the television as some inane blather drifted up. Pennyworth was doubtless assisting Father and Todd with logistics on their patrol. So Damian was solely responsible for looking after his injured elder brother. He was perfectly comfortable to do so from the top of the stairs.

Except that Drake had been perched in front of the television since he got out of bed at one that afternoon. And when he _had_ gotten out of bed, he was pale and drawn, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and wore one of Grayson's sweatshirts that hung off of him like a flour sack, not only because he was dwarfed by Grayson but also because he'd lost weight between his long, slow recovery and the recurring battles with infections he was still fighting. Damian had lost count of how many medications Pennyworth had been coaxing Drake to take every few hours, but he was almost certain that the butler hadn't had the chance to force him to take any of them today. 

Drake was so still that Damian felt an irrational worry start to grip at his chest, and he silently climbed to his feet and stepped slowly down the stairs. The cooking show on the television grew louder as he descended, and Damian stifled a grimace--he found the competition shows to be insufferable. Still, he supposed there was little else on at three in the morning.

He carefully circled the couch enough that he could see Drake's face. The older boy's eyes were half-open and glassy with exhaustion and fever. His thin shoulders were hunched beneath a red throw blanket that Todd had tossed over him before he left for patrol. He was blinking owlishly at the screen, his long, greasy bangs almost completely obscuring his eyes from view. 

Damian swallowed, hating the lump in his throat. It wasn't getting any easier to see him like this, especially when guilt coiled in his stomach every time he saw him. That should have been _him_ recovering. He _knew_ he could have recovered from a bullet wound faster than Drake could have. He'd been shot plenty of times. But that inevitably led into his guilt over his massive ignorance about Drake's mental state towards him, guilt about his own treatment of his predecessor; hell, guilt over his grandfather stabbing Drake and putting him in this situation in the first place. 

_Why wouldn't the imbecile just go to sleep?_

Shaking his head, Damian crept into the kitchen. Drake gave no sign of having heard him, and Damian couldn't help but softly scoff and shake his head. Drake was a sitting duck in this condition. Without Damian's presence, any criminal could have overcome him. That simply wouldn't do. 

With that in mind, Damian marched over to the fridge and yanked out cold-cut roast beef, mayonnaise and lettuce, and dumped the items onto the island before turning to retrieve a loaf of Pennyworth's homemade bread from the crock in which it was kept. Drake hadn't eaten all day, so he was going to fix something he knew the imbecile liked in as small a quantity as he could convince him to eat. Damian made a fairly thin sandwich, seized a can of seltzer water from the fridge, and retrieved a bag of plain crisps which was one of the few classified junk-foods Pennyworth would allow in the house. He then went back through the living room and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Drake didn't react at all as Damian strode past, not even trying to keep quiet. 

Damian set the plate on the small table in one of the guest rooms. It might have been easier to try to coax Drake into the kitchen, but then again, he would likely suspect he was going to be fed and would resist. Also, there was no guarantee the older boy wouldn't fall asleep before he could eat his sandwich. He stepped out of the room and shut the door securely behind him so Titus wouldn't go after Drake's food, and headed down the steps. He didn't pause, just strode right up in front of Drake and stood between him and the television, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at his older brother. "Come with me, Drake," he ordered. 

Drake blinked. His gaze sluggishly scanned Damian, from his socked feet to his set face. He blinked again, and Damian counted to ten. 

Finally, Drake tugged his blanket up over his shoulders a bit further and carefully climbed to his feet, his movements very slow and deliberate. Damian resisted the urge to tap his foot as he waited. Finally, Drake was standing, albeit unsteadily, and watching Damian hazily. Damian simply started walking towards the stairs; efficiently, but slowly enough that Drake could keep up, and pausing every once in a while to make sure he could hear the small, shuffling steps following dutifully behind him. Upon entering the hall where the staircase sat, Damian looked back--and caught his breath very quietly at how white Drake had gone in the past few moments. There was sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, and he was panting from even that little exertion. With another glance towards the stairs--there were a _lot_ of them--Damian pivoted and instead headed for the elevator and jammed on the button. After a moment's vaguely surprised hesitation, Drake's shuffling footsteps came closer, and Damian could feel the older boy hovering behind him and to his right. Damian chanced a glance over his shoulder and felt a jolt of alarm at how Drake was listing to one side as he stood--though calling that position 'standing' was a hint charitable for Damian's tastes. Without hesitation, when the door opened, Damian shoved himself beneath Drake's shoulder and looped Drake's limp arm around his own shoulders. "Come, Drake. The elevator affects my balance." 

Drake was still panting, but Damian was aware of the scathing look that was being directed at his jaw. Which was clenched. He was trying consciously not to grind his teeth. 

The doors closed with a click and the elevator began ascending. Drake groaned faintly, his eyes closed tightly. Damian didn't enjoy the vertigo that accompanied the elevator, either, but it didn't affect him like it did Drake's pitiful immune system. Now he _was_ grinding his teeth.

"It's not your fault," a hoarse, quiet voice said close to his ear, and Damian opened his eyes and glanced at Drake. He was leaning most of his weight on Damian, but his bloodshot eyes were open and fixed on Damian's face. Damian stifled irritation at the older boy for being so damned perceptive. "I believe technically it is." He responded tiredly. "We've discussed this at length." There'd been _plenty_ of time to do so in the last three weeks.

"It doesn't mean you have to punish yourself." Drake insisted, and Damian rolled his eyes. "I do not punish myself. Besides, I thought you all wanted me to learn shame." He huffed bitterly. 

"...Dames." Drake said kindly, and Damian hated him for it. 

"Hush." He grumbled.

Drake's mouth closed with a snap, and Damian suddenly panicked. _Had he_...he glanced at Drake's face. He wasn't looking at Damian anymore, and his gaze had gone startlingly stony.

Damian's heart was in his throat, now. He gulped. "Drake..."

"I don't like being weak any more than you like putting up with me when I am," Drake said, his voice quick and strained, and Damian felt as terrible as he would have if the older boy had punched him. In fact, he thought a punch might have been a mercy. 

"You're not weak." Damian stammered. 

Tim scoffed hatefully, and Damian became more insistent. Even though Drake was avoiding his gaze, he stared at him intently. "You're _not._ Not now, and not ever." 

After a long beat, Tim glanced back at him. Damian met his eyes, fierce determination burning in his own gaze. Finally, Drake's head dipped demurely as he nodded, glanced away again. 

"Besides," Damian said, trying to sound more normal as the doors opened, "even if you were weak, you'd have me to pick up the slack." 

Tim said nothing. But Damian felt he was a bit less resistant and leaning on Damian a bit more when they reached the guest room. Damian had to finagle a bit to open the door without accidentally dropping Tim, but eventually he managed to get the door open, and led him inside. He flicked on the light switch and pulled the chair out with his foot, depositing Tim on the seat and shoving him smoothly back towards the table. 

Tim sighed. "Dames--"

"You haven't eaten." Damian had no patience for this dance tonight. "If you won't eat this, tell me what you will eat and I'll get it."

Tim turned his head and shot Damian a look that was a mix of irritation and amusement. "You will?"

"Yes," Damian spat, "I will cook it myself, get it, or steal one of the cars and go and buy it. Father told me to look after you, and that's what I intend to do." 

Drake blinked. "Um." He said eloquently. 

Damian tapped his foot and resisted the urge to scoff.

"Uh." Tim glanced back at the paper plate with the sandwich on it, and then back at Damian, and then at the floor. "Um. This...this'll be fine." He finally said quietly. He glanced back up to meet Damian's eyes before dropping his gaze again. "Thank you, Damian." He murmured under his breath. 

Damian nodded shortly, and stepped forward and pulled another chair up to the table. He sat down and laid his folded hands on the table, and rested his chin on his hands. Drake side-eyed him while inspecting the sandwich. "You're going to just sit there and watch me eat?" He asked, bemused.

Damian simply blinked and kept staring at him. With a very faint shrug, Drake went back to focusing on the food. Damian watched him while he took small, careful bites, with plenty of breaks. He took a few crisps, but otherwise kept to a very small amount of everything. When he picked up the can of seltzer water, eyeing it warily, Damian sat up straighter. "I can get you tea if you'd rather have that.."

"S'okay," Drake said quietly. He cracked the can open and took a sip. 

Damian settled back down on the table and traced a fingernail lazily across the wooden surface, waiting. After another few minutes, Drake sat back. He glanced pleadingly at Damian. "Can I stop?"

Damian glanced up. Drake had eaten about half of the sandwich, not more than six crisps, and half the can of seltzer water. 

He sighed. "Alright." He allowed. 

Drake sighed in relief and sagged a bit in the chair. Damian got up with another sigh of his own and opened the door. "Titus," he called down the stairs, and couldn't suppress a faint smile when he heard the scuffling sound of the dog running up the steps.

"Dami." He glanced back at Drake, who was looking exhausted but firmly meeting his gaze. "Thank you. Really. It was good." 

Damian shrugged, feeling oddly self-conscious. He pushed the door open wide enough for Titus to trot in, and trailed after the dog, taking the paper plate and setting it on the floor. Titus made short work of the remainder of the sandwich. Damian turned back to Drake. "When was the last time Pennyworth treated your wound?"

Tim shrugged, nervously tugging his blanket back up over his shoulders. "Probably yesterday. Morning," he admitted. 

Damian sighed, and turned towards the bathroom to retrieve the fully-stocked medical kit that Pennyworth kept in the rooms. He trailed back out and set the kit on the table, flipping it open and retrieving the ointment. He glanced up, but Drake was already setting his blanket on the table and carefully tugging his shirt off. Damian bit his tongue and waited until Tim had dumped the shirt on the table and sat back.

Damian grabbed the tube of ointment and two new squares of gauze, and took a hesitant step closer. Lightly, he ran his fingertips over the gauze that was already in place, peeled back the medical tape. Drake didn't respond beyond the already-present tension in his shoulders that made shame burn in Damian's stomach. He kept picking at the tape, and finally got through the seal so that he could slowly pull the gauze off. He stifled a flinch at the sight of the thick black stitches and the raw-looking skin surrounding it. He tossed the old gauze into the trash bin and grabbed the tube of ointment, squirting a bit of it onto one of the new squares of gauze and gently patting it on the wound. Drake drew a sharp breath through his teeth and closed his eyes tightly, and Damian shot him a sympathetic glance but kept working methodically, trying not to hurt him any more than was absolutely necessary. 

Finally, he fixed the new piece of gauze over the wound and stepped away. Drake slumped in the chair, drawing slow, measured breaths. Damian dug out a painkiller without a word, held it out to Tim, who took it and snatched his soda can, downing the pill in one swallow and sitting back. 

Damian put everything back where it went, threw away the trash, and finally reemerged in the bedroom where Drake had practically melted into the chair. The sky outside the window was still dark, but Damian knew by his internal clock that it was nearing morning. Father and Todd would be back soon, if they weren't already. 

"Drake," he said quietly. Exhaustion-reddened eyes slid sluggishly to meet his. He still hadn't gone to sleep, even after all that. The moron. 

"Come on." Damian gestured towards the bed. With a quiet huff that was more of an inhale than a complaint, Tim stood and snatched his shirt, tugging it back on as he trailed after Damian towards the bed. Damian stepped back and watched as Drake slowly climbed onto the bed and shifted restlessly. When he had mostly stilled, Damian clambered up and rolled onto his side, so that his back was facing Drake. He huffed a tired breath, expecting to settle in and wait for Drake to finally succumb to sleep. 

Instead, he felt a pair of hands wrap around his abdomen from behind, and gently tug him back until his back was pressed against Drake. "Your chest--" he protested.

"--Is fine." Drake said firmly, and Damian shut up and sighed again, nuzzling down against the mattress. 

He felt Drake rest his chin on top of his head. "Dami?" He asked breathily.

"Hmm." 

"Thanks. For taking care of me."

Damian shrugged very softly. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thank you for protecting me." _I still don't know if I was worth it, but thank you._

The arms around him squeezed very lightly. "S'okay," Drake slurred. The weight of his chin on Damian's head became a bit more pronounced. "Y'u're my brother." 

Damian couldn't quite stifle the shaky inhale that rattled wetly. He lay almost stock still until Drake had gone mostly limp and his hoarse breaths had evened out into something resembling normal. Then he gave a tiny huff and nestled down in the bed, scowling in satisfaction and closing his eyes. _That'll teach him that he can't get away with neglecting himself anymore._

_At least, not while I'm around._


End file.
